Crossing Over
by PhantomPenguin
Summary: When Julia is launched into the past by the malicious Count Harken, Paton is not far behind. Racing to rescue Julia from dangers fantastic and forgotten, he must play the role of everything from gladiator to cowboy in order to save the love of his life.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: Charlie Bone and all associated characters/plots/ideas/etc do not and will never belong to me.**

Soooo, you know how I've been tormenting you with teasing asides about a multi-chapter fic I've been working on? This is it. Yup, I've _finally _reached a point where I feel like I have enough of an idea of what direction I wish to take it that I can post it and guarantee relatively-constant updates. Hopefully. As it stands, though, it's been far too long since I've posted anything, so think of this as your reward for being so patient with me. This first chapter is merely the prologue, so it's rather short in my overall scheme of chapter length. I have the first "real" chapter written as well, so I can guarantee at least one regular update, haha.

I'm going to put a heavier emphasis on my plea for reviews this time around, as I want this story to be as engaging and well-thought out as possible; as such, your thoughts and opinions are what are really going to help me develop the plot and characters, so please take the time to say _something _once you're finished reading.

As always, though, my main intent is for you to read and enjoy!

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><p>Humming a nameless tune, Julia turned the tap on, letting the water that gushed forth grow warm and steamy before plunging the dirty dish clasped in her hand beneath the steady flow. There were just enough plates left over from her and Emma's dinner that washing was a necessity, but not enough to bother running the dishwasher, so here she stood, a glowing example of traditional housekeeping.<p>

She stood in her homey kitchen, surrounded by growing shadows as night encroached onto evening, the last vestiges of summer light trickling in through the windows belying the lateness of the hour. Pulling the plate from the water, she inspected it with a critical eye, searching for any lingering soap suds. She dried the single lingering puff of suds with one deft swoop of her towel and deposited it on the counter.

Pushing a strand of chestnut hair from her eyes, she reached for the final plate in her stack. Before she could do anything besides pick it up, however, there was a loud bang from the direction of the shop-the telltale sound of the heavy wooden door swinging closed. Frowning, Julia set the dish in her hand aside and turned off the water, ears pricked for any more unusual noises. For a moment, she believed her fears to be for naught, hearing only the light chirping of crickets lurking outside. Perhaps it had simply been a particularly enthusiastic gust of wind...

Then, though, her nerves jumped into high alort, adrenaline surging through her body. Julia jerked, standing bolt upright at a position of intent attention, as the distinctive tread of booted feet cut through the silence. Heart pounding, eyes wide and wary, she crossed the kitchen and stepped out into the front room, casting fleeting glances this way and that as she went.

Past experiences had long ago taught her to be cautious with regards to unknown visitors.

All in the front room initially appeared normal, her possessions and merchandise calmly sitting precisely where she had left them earlier. All the books were in place and secure on their shelves, and not a thing in the shop appeared to have been disturbed; even the window through which Emma had departed—she was out in the evening air experimenting with a new feathered form—sat open, a gentle breeze wafting into the shop and bringing with it the sweet scent of summer.

But, there! A slight creak from somewhere off to the right sent Julia jumping around, arms extended in a searching gesture. She peered into the growing shadows, straining her eyes to make out any intruding form.

"Miss Ingledew, I presume?" A tall, imposing man stepped out from where he had concealed himself behind a bookshelf.

For all her alertness, Julia gasped in startlement and retreated backwards, drawing up against the wall behind her counter. Inhaling, giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the encroaching night, she took a moment to compose herself and regain her bearings. As the stranger took a step forward, Julia returned to the present with a jolt. "I'm sorry," she said, "but we're closed."

He smiled, a cold, predatory smile that did not touch his eyes. "Oh, I'm not here as a customer," he said, stepping so that he stood a mere six feet from Julia.

Her eyebrows drew together and she placed her hands on her hips, facing the stranger head-on but remaining cemented firmly behind the established barrier of her solid wooden counter. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she said firmly.

The man raised an eyebrow but did not move otherwise. "And I'm afraid I cannot do that," he remarked. "You have been making quite a nuisance of yourself lately, Miss Ingledew," he said. His tone was light and conversational, but his expression spoke otherwise, reminiscent of a predator moments away from striking.

Julia gripped the checkout counter, leaning forward over the register to give the intruder a fierce glare. "Please leave, sir," she repeated, with much more force. Her firm demeanor masked her internal agitation; internally, she brimmed with nervous energy, desperately wishing that she had stopped to call Paton prior to initiating any confrontation. She would not be able to force this man to do anything should the situation demand it.

Spreading his hands wide, he stepped forward and gave a slight bow—just the smallest inclination of his head—to acknowledge her foolish display of courage. "I admire your tenacity in insisting I depart," he said, still making a steady path toward the counter, "but you must understand that Count Harken answers to no one. "

Julia's eyes widened, knuckles turning white as her grip tightened painfully around the wood she grasped. "Count Harken." She mouthed the name soundlessly, mind racing a mile a minute to churn up any scrap of information buried in her brain regarding the awful enchanter standing before her.

A true smile spread across his face then, curling his lips into a gross approximation of delight. "So you've heard of me, then." He had reached the counter by this point, and it took all of Julia's willpower to remain where she stood, to refrain from recoiling from this man who had created so much mayhem and misery.

Reaching into a pocket, the enchanter pulled out a slim, handheld mirror and extended his arm, holding the mirror between them and allowing the gleaming gilded surface to capture the lingering threads of daylight, the golden streams reflecting onto the walls in gleaming strands.

"And have you also heard of this." It was not a question.

"The Mirror of Amoret!" Julia exclaimed. She gasped audibly, her conviction to remain stoic forgotten as she took in the smooth, whole piece of glass nestled snugly in the beautiful frame. "And it's _whole_!"

The count trailed a finger along the unblemished glass. "It is indeed," he affirmed. "And do you know what its first task shall be since being repaired?"

Julia's eyes widened with dawning horror, but she only shook her head, slowly backing away until her shoulders bumped against the wall. "No," she said defiantly, glaring up at him, "I don't."

Harken's lips curled into a cruel mimicry of a grin, pulling away from unnaturally white teeth bared in a savage snarl of a smile. "Why," he said, as if explaining to a small child, "I'm going to get rid of _you_." He tilted his head slightly, contemplating the mirror. "The only question that now remains is _how_…"

As his gaze flitted from shelf to shelf, Julia began to inch her way towards the door in the desperate hope that she might escape into the back living quarters, that she could call for help, call Paton, call _someone_.

It was, however, to no avail. Harken's eyes snapped back on her at the slightest movement, narrowing to pin her against the wall with the sheer force of their contained malice. Julia stiffened, knowing that she was trapped. Her eyes fluttered close as she succumbed to a momentary flood of helplessness. She despised being forced into a situation in which she had no options, loathed the fact that this man had complete and utter control over her fate.

As if he could read her thoughts, Harken uttered a soft laugh, reaching out with his free hand to trace her cheek. "Yes," he said lowly, smirking as she recoiled, "it is hard to come to terms with one's demise, is it not?"

His gaze flitted over to the small bookshelf that sat by the doorway to the back room, a small, innocuous thing that contained an every-changing roster of reference books, altered on a week-to-week basis as Julia's interest and research shifted from subject to subject.

Julia followed his line of sight, brows puckering in confusion as she realized the focus of his gaze. "How…" Her voice failed her, and shakily she wet her lips, trying to recall moisture to her throat so that she might speak. "What do you intend to do with me?" she asked, throwing all of her remaining courage into voicing that question.

Harken's answering chuckle was just loud enough that it drowned out the soft patter of the bird alighting on the sill of the open window that sat high in the room's corner. "Why," he said, "I believe I'll send you on a little _journey_." He tapped one long index finger against the rim of the mirror. "Yes," he said decisively, "that is _exactly _what I shall do." He pursed his lips, eyes focusing on some far off point that he could see. "Let's see just how much you love your precious books," he murmured. A fell grin pulled at his mouth. "Or, rather, let's see how much they love _you_."

The mirror began to emit a silvery glow that grew to encompass the entire corner of the room in which the two currently stood. From its vantage point at the window, the bird uttered an agitated screech and fluttered over to a tall bookcase where it stood, out of sight, and watched the proceedings below.

The mirror's luminosity had reached the point where it was nearly painful to look at. Even with her eyes squeezed tightly closed, Julia was all but blinded, the world beyond her lids glowing molten silver. A cool feeling trickled across her skin, seeping across every inch like a viscous, watery ooze, constricting her where she stood. Her last thought before her consciousness fled was of Paton—that he might be safe from this madman and the havoc he wreaked. Then the mirror pulsed, and she knew no more.

As Julia Ingledew disappeared in a burst of silvery light, quite a few things happened. Harken, delighted in his moment of malicious triumph, began to laugh, the sound echoing darkly throughout the mostly-deserted shop. He turned from the corner, casting one last, amused look at the small bookshelf favored by Emma and her aunt, and began to pick his way through the maze of shelves to the front door. Giving the mirror a loving caress, he tucked it carefully into a side pocket beneath his cloak, the handle just protruding into the open air.

Distracted as he was by his success, he failed to take note of the small blur of feathers that swept down from the shelf where it had been hiding, biding its time until the opportune moment arrived. Deftly, with talons more like fingers than anything else, it seized the Mirror of Amoret and disappeared back into the shelves in a matter of seconds—Harken never noticed a thing.

He reached the door and swung open the heavy wood as though it weighed naught but that of a feather, and turned to survey the shop one final time. Robbed of its owner, it seemed as though a dismal haze hung over it, a gaping chasm that could not be filled. The only signs of life were the few candles that still flickered feebly in their holders, valiantly struggling to maintain a semblance of habitation. A wave of his hand quickly quenched that hope, and the candles sputtered and died, the room sinking fully into darkness.

Harken gave a satisfied nod and swept across the threshold, slamming the door shut behind him.

The loud bang of the heavy wood on the frame reverberated through the empty shop, shaking the building in its very foundations. Emma trembled where she stood perched among a series of biographies. Birds had no tear ducts, but she found herself nearly defying nature anyway. She forced herself to wait a few moments, ensuring that the deadly count had truly departed, then fluttered down to the floor and returned to her human form, feathers receding and wings slowly giving way to arms and fingers.

Her auntie was gone. Julia Ingledew had disappeared before her eyes—and she had no idea where. Overcome with despondency, Emma allowed herself a moment to simply sit and despair. Her breath came in shallow sobs, and she looked blankly at the floor, pale hair hanging about her face in a ragged mess.

As some semblance of reason slowly returned to her, she became aware of something clutched tightly between her fingers, the hard metal cool against her feverish skin—the Mirror of Amoret. She had all but forgotten it in her anguish. As she looked down at it, her face hardened into a mask of determination. She _would _get her aunt back, or find someone who could. She _had _to.

Cradling the mirror in her arms, she dashed out the door, headed for the home of the one person she trusted to rescue her aunt, headed for Number Nine—and for Paton Yewbeam.


	2. Into the Past

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

Iknow most of you have been dying to have me post this, so I'll go ahead and put it up =) I want to tell you now, though: not all updates will be this frequent. I am a full-time college student, and my studies and extracurriculars take priority over Paton and Julia's adventures, however much I sometimes wish that they didn't. With that said, though, I'm going to do my best to always be working on a chapter or two, and I _do _have the second chapter nearly finished at this very moment =D

So, without further ado, I present to you the first "official" chapter of Crossing Over! Read, review (_please_ review...your comments help to improve my writing!), and as always, enjoy!

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><p>"Mr. Yewbeam, Mr. Yewbeam!" Heavy footsteps pounded up the walk to Number Nine, rousing its occupants from their after-dinner stupor. From where they sat around the kitchen table, Charlie, Maisie, and Amy sat up in their chairs, heads turning questioningly towards the door as a small figure flung it back against its frame and flew into the house. Her eyes were wild and red-rimmed, her face flushed, hair sticking out in every possible direction.<p>

She cast a quick, distracted look into the kitchen and took note of the party. Seeing that her quarry was not present, she withdrew, and, legs churning, dashed up the stairs to the second floor landing.

Charlie's brows drew together, and he shared a significant look with his mother and grandmother. Something was certainly amiss, and he was going to take it upon himself to find out what. He shoved his chair back and stood up, racing up the stairs after Emma, face serious and set in his concern for his friend.

Amy and Maisie followed at a more leisurely pace, halting at the foot of the stairs and looking up.

Emma's feet finally stilled as she reached the closed door at the stairs' head. Chest heaving as she caught her breath, she beat her fists against the unforgiving white wood. "Oh, Mr. Yewbeam, _please_ be here!" she wailed, all but vibrating with helpless frustration.

A few furious tears leaked from her eyes, trickling from between clenched lids to trail down along her face. "Please," she whispered soundlessly. A distant part of her mind registered that Charlie had followed her and halted just behind her on the top step, but she paid him no mind, focused as she was on instigating the appearance of his uncle.

The pair heard the sound of a chair slamming into the desk beyond the door, and they jumped back as hurried footsteps approached, eying the wood in trepidation. It swung wide open with a loud creak, and Paton stepped out, hair rumpled and glasses perched lopsidedly upon his nose, very much dressed and awake and appearing quite anxious.

"What on earth is the matter, Emma?" he asked, brows drawn downward into a worried frown. His sweeping gaze took in the slight figure that stood shuddering on the landing, her face white and drawn and full of agony of the utmost extent, traveled beyond her to raise a questioning brow at Charlie, who was standing as patiently as he could behind his friend and looking as though the exercise in forced quietude were killing him.

Realizing that Charlie and his family knew nothing, Paton seemed to almost shrink, worry oozing into his lean frame, seeping into his every pore and orifice and robbing him of serenity. Only one reality could so damage Emma's usually stoic façade.

"It's Julia, isn't it?" he asked, his broad shoulders collapsing inwards toward his chest as he pressed steepled hands to the bridge of his nose, knowing even as he spoke the words that they were the truth. "Something has happened."

Mutely, unable to conjure up the energy or strength to speak, Emma nodded, her eyes wide and fearful, her face drawn into a terrible, agonized frown. She trembled violently, a few silent tears leaking from her eyes.

Paton seemed to realize that he must address the situation with care. He knelt, bringing himself closer to Emma's level, and drew her gently into his arms, resting her slight frame against his shoulder and rubbing her back soothingly. "Calm down," he said, his speech slow and measured and designed to generate an atmosphere of tranquility.

Charlie watched Paton draw his friend close and comfort her, and his respect for the man—which he had already believed to be maximized to its utmost capacity—grew tenfold. His uncle was not only the most intelligent individual he had ever met, he was also kind and just and strong, and unlike most other adults in Charlie's world, he _cared_ as well as understood.

Emma gave a few last, shuddering sighs and drew back slightly from Paton, passing a hand across her face and dashing away the lingering tears. "He just walked in," she blurted, finally able to vocalize her experience, the words spewing from her mouth in an uncontrolled flow, "just walked through the door and pulled out a mirror, and—"

Understanding dawned in an instant, and Paton's eyes clouded in abject horror. He shut them briefly, sable lashed fluttering against pale cheeks that were now corpselike with a fretful lack of blood. "The mirror of Amoret," he breathed. "So, they've fixed it at last." He sagged against the stair railing. "Did he send her somewhere, Emma?" he asked, desperately hoping for and fearing an affirmative response: a yes meant that there was still hope, that Julia was alive to be rescued and returned home, but it also meant that she was lost and alone in some unknown, horrible reality, subject to terrors that defied reality.

The scene's observers were locked in dismay as well, Charlie, Amy, and Maisie all-too-familiar with Count Harken and the suffering that accompanied him. Charlie bit his lip, wanting to run to his friend and offer what help he could, while Amy and Maisie both uttered soft gasps and exchanged alarmed gazes. Maisie remembered all too well how their family had all but fallen apart during Amy's bewitchment at the hands of the devious count; for her part, Amy was lost in a sweeping surge of sympathy for Julia Ingledew, for she was well-acquainted with the horrific ramifications that accompanied such an encounter.

Up on the landing, the air was taught, strained with tension as the present party awaited Emma's reply. Silently, eyes overflowing with tears, she nodded, knees sagging from fatigue.

"Oh, my dear," Paton murmured, at a momentary loss. Both children knew that he spoke not to them, that this was not an apostrophe to open air, and that he instead addressed a lovely, chestnut-haired bookseller who had been dismissed from their world. Paton's hand shook, and he passed it tiredly across his face, kneading his forehead in distress. "Where did he send you?" He stiffened, a horrible list of possibilities flooding his mind, surging through his imagination and tormenting him with images and possibilities too horrible to name. "Not Badlock, surely…?"

Emma shook her head. "I don't think so," she said slowly, lingering on each word as she desperately tried to draw forth all her memories of the evil event. "Before he pulled out the mirror and made Auntie…disappear," her voice hitched with tears she refused to shed, "he wandered through the shop…" She closed her eyes, lost in the memory of it. "He stopped by her personal shelf—you know the little one full of histories and references along the back wall?"

Mutely, Paton nodded.

Emma frowned. "Well," she continued, face screwed up in recollection, "he was focusing quite heavily on it before—before he sent Aunt Julia away." Over bright eyes turned to regard Paton with a mixture of hopeful confusion. "Is it possible that she is…would she be _in _the books, or part of the events that they describe?"

Charlie's eyebrows raised as he listened. The possibility would never have occurred to _him, _but now that Emma had presented it it seemed all too plausible. If he could venture into paintings real and imagined alike, then certainly one could be transported into the myriad of written worlds that existed between the pages of books. He watched his uncle closely, waiting for Paton to give some cue or command that he could follow.

Paton paced back and forth on the landing, his long legs covering the distance in a scant three strides. Back and forth, back and forth he strode, lost in the turmoil of his churning mind, seemingly oblivious to all else. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he turned over what he knew of the Mirror and its capabilities, of the impracticalities and impossibilities associated with blending fact and fiction.

The silence in the air grew palpable, weighted by Paton's concentration and Emma's and Charlie's growing frustration. Just as the girl decided that she could linger no longer, that he had to _act_, to do something to begin the search for Julia, Paton paused in his pacing, his face firm and decisive.

"I believe," he declared, "that such a thing would indeed be within in the realm of possibility. If endowments can send people from past to present, and from present to past, and innocents can be transported into paintings of horrible realms, then Julia may certainly be trapped within the pages of a book." His face grew solemn. "She is likely experiencing history as the books portray it—or the very events themselves."

It was a humbling, horrifying thought, imagining Julia whirling about the ancient world, trapped within the pages and events of the very books that she so loved. Bound to the written word, unable to change the plot, simply a spectator to be incorporated into the story at its will—the danger far outweighed the adventure.

Gasping as memory suddenly swamped her senses, Emma bowed her head, now overwhelmed by certainty. "He _did_ send her there," she exclaimed, vehement in her conviction, "because I remember him saying something about seeing just how much she loved her books." Quailing, she drew against the stair rail, gripping the wood with fingers white with tension. "Will she….can we save her, Mr. Yewbeam?"

The question was posed to empty air, for Paton had disappeared into his room at Emma's affirmation, sweeping across his paper-strewn floor to collect his coat and hat and donning them in a swift movement. Returning to the distraught girl, he placed his hands on her shoulders and met her teary gaze with solemn sable eyes.

"We _will_ rescue her, Emma." His voice was measured and calm, his movements slow and gentle. He knew he could not allow his own rising panic, his desperate fear that Julia was lost to him forevermore, that she was beyond his reach and doomed to an eternity of suffering, to be displayed.

They _had _to succeed.

"Our first step," he said, guiding her down the stairs with a gentle hand on her back, "is to return to the bookshop and see just which books are sitting on the shelf. I am familiar with some of Julia's usual reading, but she does tend to absentmindedly set various tomes on that shelf." He tilted his head slightly to make sure Charlie was following, and gave the boy a slight nod to indicate that he was to accompany them to the shop.

Emma allowed herself to be propelled out the door and down along the street, all but running to keep pace with Paton's long strides, and Charlie followed in their wake, jogging along the cobbled sidewalk and darting around what few pedestrians graced the street.

It was a solemn group that arrived outside Ingledew's bookstore, their faces drawn and eyes grave as they took in the darkened windows. The shop appeared a hollow shell of its former self, for all that its primary occupant had been gone but an hour. There was simply something about such a horrific manner of disappearing that tainted the air with a sour tinge.

They entered as one, sliding the heavy wooden door open and closed with care, stepping into the main room and taking stock of the situation. The silence was tangible, thick enough to be cut with a knife. Though empty for a mere hour, the place had an air of disuse, a sour overtone of ill will and dark deeds. Night had come fully on by this point, the pitch black sky of late summer wholly eclipsing the reticent twilight that had long lingered in the evening. Starlight gleamed through the windows, the twinkling, heavenly bodies lending their silvery sheen to the store, illuminating shelves and books that now sat along and ownerless.

As he gazed about this room that he loved so much, taking stock of the pride and joy of the woman he loved, Paton was struck by an overwhelming sense of sadness. He knew not what horrors Julia faced, knew not where she was, nor what condition he was in. She was lost and alone and in the worst sort of danger, yet he could at present do nothing about it. Angrily, he pounded his fist into his palm, sweeping across the threshold and into the store outright, making his way to the counter and the slim row of books framing the wall beside the door that led to Julia's inner sanctum. Tremulously, he trailed a finger along the well-worn spines, eyes straining in the darkness to ascertain the titles.

A soft scratching sound from the vicinity of his elbow made him jump, but it was only Emma, a twinkling match clutched in one hand and a candle in the other. The candle sprang to life as the flame met its wick, springing into a bright luminosity and casting a dancing glow on the line of books. It further illuminated Emma's face, and that of Charlie as he drew up beside her, seizing the lines of worry that traced their faces and amplifying them tenfold.

Paton eyed the line of books, tapping each one with his index finger as he committed its title and order in the row to memory. "An exploration of the Roman coliseum, dinosaurs, some various mythological works, readings on Ancient Egypt…_" _He shook his head. "Julia always did adore the classical civilizations." He squinted at the worn volumes he had yet to name and continued with his inventory. "A nautical anthology," (he grimaced as his mind flashed to possibilities of pirates and hurricanes and roiling seas), "a reference to various animal species and their habitats_, _histories of both Australia and North America…" His voice trailed off as he perused the remaining works with his eyes alone.

It was quite an array, to be certain, and daunting to behold.

Paton slowly began to consider the dangers associated with each volume, to comprehend what his beloved might be facing at this very moment in time. His eyes darkened and his face grew grim as he realized she could be practically anywhere and anytime, lost in books and history alike.

She could be face-to-face with a gladiator, lost amid the high seas aboard a wooden death trap, or staring down a vicious carnivore. Worse, she could be stranded and defenseless amidst a great struggle, caught up in the sweeping flow of battle, confronted by hideous demons and who knew what else.

For all he knew, it was well within the realm of possibility that she even stood before a god—or, at least one as the ancients had imagined. He turned the volume of mythology over in his hands, flipping through it to ascertain which cultures were represented. "Greek, Roman, Egyptian, Norse…." He sighed and stepped away from the shelf, leaning heavily against the wall. "We must find a way to find her, Emma, to get to her and bring her out."

Emma had been silent up until this point, content to allow Paton to take charge of the situation as he was so wont to do. He was a man she admired above all else, his dark and imposing presence, his certainty in the face of danger and his unwavering determination a comfort even in the worst of times. His chiseled features were ice-like, held firm and unyielding in his current state of distress, mouth fixed and eyes hard as he contemplated their next move.

She shifted from where she leaned against the wall, back stiff from holding the position so long. The movement jostled her deep jacket pocket, and she jumped as a hard handle bumped against her side. "Oh!" she exclaimed, furious at herself for forgetting, "Oh!"

Paton turned to look down at her, a frown on his face. "What is it, Emma?" he inquired.

She reached a hand into her pocket and slowly pulled out the mirror, its face flashing in the light of the candle. "Count Harken was so distracted on his way out that I was able to steal this," she said, extending it to him. "In all of the excitement, I'd all but forgotten."

For a long moment, Paton did not—could not—move. He simply stood and stared down at the proffered mirror, gazing at it with a look of such renewed hope that it was almost alarming. Suddenly he burst into action, sweeping mirror and girl both into his arms, tucking the precious item within his coat pocket and clasping Emma warmly on both shoulders.

"Oh, my dear girl," he exclaimed, kneeling to look her earnestly in the face, "this changes _everything._" He grinned outright. "Julia is saved, if we can find her. With this, with the Mirror, we can go in after her, find her and bring her back safe and sound!"

He jumped back to his feet and bounded over to the bookshelf, pulling the Mirror back out and looking at the line of books that awaited them. "I believe," he murmured, studying the works intently, "that the best course of action would be to start at the beginning."

Turning to Charlie, who had up until this point been leaning against the wall and trying not to fidget, he beckoned him to come over. "Charlie, I am going to 'go in,' so to speak, after your aunt. I need you to remain here with the mirror until it is time for me to return. If I'm correct—and I usually am—it should work _on _any being or thing, and since you are a descendent of Amoret the Mirror will heed your call better than any other."

He thrust the aforementioned artifact into Charlie's hand and turned it upon a vase of flowers that sat upon the desk. "All you need to do," he instructed, guiding his nephew's hand to adjust the angle of the mirror, "is focus on an item and where you wish to send it."

Charlie considered this for a moment, Emma watching in silence. "Shall I send the vase to the first book, then?" he asked. At Paton's affirmative nod, he screwed up her face in concentration, closing his eyes and feeling incredibly silly all the while. It couldn't be that different than his traveling, or working with Claerwen. Focusing on the vase and the vase alone, he pictured it entering the mirror, traveling along some unknown corridor to emerge in

As Emma gasped and a brilliant gold light flared behind his closed eyelids, Charlie opened his eyes to find the vase had vanished.

"Excellent!" Paton applauded, internally heaving a great sigh of relief. Having never had the mirror in his possession before, he had been unsure as to whether his plan would work. Now that Charlie had proven its use was well within the realm of possibility, he was free to envision a future in which Julia could be saved.

The three of them peered into the mirror, searching the hazy scene for the missing vase—and there it was, sitting on a cobbled road before a great opera house. They marveled at the sight for a moment, in awe of the overwhelming power of the artifact that Charlie held in his hands.

Finally, Paton jerked himself back to the present and took charge of the situation once more, focusing on his nephew and the mirror that he held clasped in his hand. "Now," Paton continued with his instruction, "call it back in the same manner." This was the part of the matter that had his heart knotted in trepidation, for if Charlie could not call back the mirror, then all was for naught and Julia…Julia would still be trapped.

As before, Charlie closed his eyes and once again called a picture of the vase to his mind. This time, the flash of light was much quicker in appearing, and he opened her eyes to see the is perched on the counter, just as though it had never undertaken its bizarre journey.

Paton clapped his hands together, unable to completely conceal the relieved smile that broke out across his face. His mind was made up. Gently, he took Charlie's hand in his and turned the mirror upon himself. "Now it's my turn," he said softly. "You must watch and be alert, Charlie, for I am entirely dependent on you to escape these volumes. I will enter and explore, and if Julia is not in that particular work I will call to you to retrieve me." He looked down at him, sable eyes dark and intent. "Time will run differently, I'm sure-it always tends to do so in these alternate universes. Now," his voice was as serious as could be, "You are _not _to summen me back unless I tell you to, or unless I am in immediate danger for my life. Do you understand?"

Charlie nodded, quailing under Paton's direct gaze. The responsibility his uncle was placing on his shoulders was immense. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and straightened his back, meeting Paton's eyes with a gaze full of determination. "I do," he declared.

Paton turned to Emma. "And you, dear girl, must stay with him and watch. The two of you must keep the shop locked and closed, prevent any others from entering until Julia and I return." Sensing her unease, he took her hand in both of his and held it warmly, offering a warm smile. "It will be alright, dear girl," he promised. "We will find her, and we will bring her back. I swear it."

Emma offered a hesitant smile in return, hoping against hope that Paton was right.

She freed her hand from his grasp and stepped back, giving Charlie room to direct the mirror toward his uncle.

Mouth tight, face drawn and focused, Charlie closed his eyes once more, the golden glow of light already beginning to emanate from the Mirror. His eye twitched beneath its lid, a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead—and Paton disappeared in a brilliant, golden flash.


	3. Gladiator

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

Ye gods, I have been rather productive as of late, haven't I? Wow...I'm very proud of myself! You should be proud of me, too, because it means you have more reading fodder to enjoy =D This chapter practically wrote itself; if all of thothers emerge as easily, you should be in good shape as far as regular updates are concerned! I'm actually having a blast writing this, and it gives me something to do when I've done my homework and it's too chilly or raining for me to do anything outside! I love the southern US, but unfortunately (or fortunately for you, I suppose), winter is typically synonymous with a buttload of precipitation.

Right, so, about the chapter...not much for me to say besides "gladiators". Have at it, and as always read/review/enjoy!

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><p>Paton collided painfully with the ground, his body screaming in protest as it jarred against the solid cement floor. His head throbbed, multi-colored lights flashing before his eyes and leaving him temporarily blind. Wincing, he hauled himself into some semblance of a standing position, levering himself up by using an ornate (and very much naked) marble statue as his prop. Braced against the cool marble, he shook his head to clear away the last of the stars that swam across his eyes.<p>

"That," he muttered wryly to himself, pressing a hand to throbbing temples, "just won the award for being my least favorite method of travel." This was saying something, as to date he had utilized a myriad of transportation methods, from horse and buggy to snowshoes to even a very bumpy and uncomfortable ride atop the back of a rather odorous camel. Nothing, however, could compare to the gravity-deprived free-for-all that defined hurtling who-knew-how-fast through space and time.

Attempting to ignore the scream for attention from his bruised shoulders, back, and hips, he cast his gaze about to determine the nature of his surroundings. It seemed that Fate or fortune had been kind, depositing him conveniently well-out-of-sight, off in a corner behind his friendly statue and a tall plant bursting with leaves and color. He stood in an open-walled hall, the floor beneath his feet a series of marble and cement. Tall columns supported a lofty, overhead ceiling that allowed one to fully appreciate the warm summer breeze and sun that flittered in through the wide overhead windows and gaping slots in the walls. The center of the room was dominated by a rectangular pool, the hall in which he stood framing it in its entirety.

Paton squinted at the water, attempting to make out the composition of the forms that moved about in the water. All of a sudden, one grew, rising from the water to reveal a head and unclothed torso—a very _female _head and torso. Paton blinked, and a dull pink blush spread across his cheeks. _That _was certainly unexpected. He sagged back against the wall, doing his best to avert his gaze and pretend he was anywhere _other _than a women's bath house.

"Right," he said, looking determinedly at the ground. "Between the architecture and the state of relative luxury...I'm in ancient Rome."

A disturbance from the center of the pool forced his head to turn despite itself, and Paton trailed his gaze along the surface of the water, trying to see without _seeing _what was inspiring the great clamor. Two dignified women escorted another between them who was seemingly of lower rank than they, for the two acted more as guards than escorts, standing straight and tall as their companion slumped meekly beside them.

Each of the Roman women held one of the other woman's arms, their fingers curled tightly around her biceps, nails digging into the pale skin. Paton's head snapped fully upright as he honed in on the face of the escorted woman, looking intently at her head and neck alone. He _knew _that skin tone, knew the delicate curves and features of that gentle face, had buried his hands in that thick chestnut hair that cascaded down about her shoulders to just tease the water's surface.

"Julia," he breathed. His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him to the open edge of the hall beside the pool. He ducked behind one of the many towering columns that held the ceiling suspended, craning his neck and straining his ears to learn how Julia had come to be here.

The two other women guided Julia to the side of the bathing pool, keeping her beside the edge as they finished washing her skin with a headily-scented soap. "She's a quiet one, isn't she?" The one on the left looked over the top of Julia's head to address the other, continuing to rinse of suds.

"She's the prize at tomorrow's games," her companion replied. "Didn't you know? We're to make her as beautiful and presentable as we can—gladiators have to have a desirable prize, don't they?"

The other woman nodded knowingly. "Ah, that explains those, then," she said sagely, jerking her head towards Julia's wrists, to which Paton had previously paid no mind. They were adorned with thick iron manacles, the unforgiving metal fastened tightly about her slim wrists and joined with a thin—but unbreakable, Paton was certain—chain.

"Julia," he whispered, loathing the fact that he was forced to stand seemingly uncaring and inactive as she was mere yards before him. He understood now why she acted so passive, why her normally fiery spirit was quelled. For the moment, at least, she was helpless, bested and in the full power of these two Roman women.

He lingered for a moment longer, hoping to hear more conversation or details, but it seemed that the women had said all that they cared to. Deciding not to tempt fate by lurking on the edge of an all-female bathhouse, he ducked out along a side corridor, travelling along in a haze of confusion until he came across a large open door through which he could see an assortment of men entering and exiting a larger, more elaborate pool.

"This must be the men's baths," he mused, watching as two young men engaged in the sport of splashing their companions. He suddenly became aware of the fact that he was standing in an ancient Roman city in very _non_-ancient Roman apparel. Something told him that black slacks and a red button-up shirt were not acceptable dress for the era.

Ducking into another, smaller door, he grinned outright at his good luck. It seemed he had found the apodyterium, where the men undressed. Here was a room full of tunics, one of them just begging to be purloined. He knew such rooms usually had slaves to attend them, but he could see two men hunkered down in the far corner over a pair of dice and took them to be this particular room's "attendants."

Swiftly, praying that his luck held, he tiptoed across the room, hunkering down so as to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He spied a citizen-style tunic, and quickly shucked his own clothes and shrugged into the long piece of cloth, belting it at the waist. He cast his gaze about in search of a pair of sandals large enough to fit his feet, and hurriedly exchanged his own shoes for those of the Roman style.

Thus clad, he turned on his heels and left the room, blundering his way through the maze of columned halls until he stumbled out into a large street. Blinking at the great rush of sunlight, he tripped over an upraised stone and was forced to give an ungainly series of hops to regain his balance. By this point, his vision was clear once more, and he took in his first sight of ancient Rome in all its glory.

Building of white marble and cement lined each side of the wide, stone-and-concrete street, reflecting the late afternoon sun with a nearly ethereal glow. Citizens bustled up and down the walk, each intent on his/her destination and purpose. Paton watched the flow of traffic for a long while, his mind churning a mile a minute as he formulated a plan.

He knew to attempt to rescue Julia by force would be futile, that such an endeavor would likely just end in his imprisonment—or death. Similarly, any attempt to communicate with those who held her would be in vain, as he doubted he could provide reasons sufficient to satisfy Roman officials in favor of Julia's liberation.

Passing a hand through his dark hand, he let it fall to his side, looking down at his fists as he idly opened and closed them. He could think of only one possible solution. "Right," murmured, closing his hand into a solid fist. "Time to be a gladiator."

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><p>The next day dawned sultry and bright, steam from a brief rain shower rising from the smooth flagstones and creating a sticky haze that hung in the air. Citizens from all across the city flocked to the Coliseum, streaming in through the doors to fill the ascending rows of seats.<p>

The din was astonishing, and even from where he stood beneath the floor of the arena Paton was overwhelmed by the noise. He stood alone, away from the milling crowd of other contenders, feet braced in a confident stance that belied his mild expression. He wore the tunic from the day before, but through the help of a sponsor who had seen a hidden strength and profit potential in this silent, lean foreigner he now boasted a battered metal shoulder piece, worn leather wrist bands, and thick cloth greaves that covered his legs from ankle to knee.

He had also acquired a long, lethal gladius—the double-edged Roman sword from which the very word 'gladiator' was derived. It hung from a belt at his hip, secure in a worn leather sheath, the bone hilt resting firmly against his pelvis.

The old Roman who had invested in Paton had tried to foist a sort of metal helm upon his gladiator as well, but that Paton had refused, knowing good and well that his unfamiliarity with the piece would simply prove a hindrance rather than a help. His compatriots, he saw, had no such reservations; most sported helms, and nearly all of them bore a rounded shield on their arms. That, too, Paton had refused, feeling that he would likely strip over it before he blocked anything with it.

He knew from a fleeting glimpse of the listings that he was to partake in the first match of the days games, and that his opponent was a former Roman soldier, turned slave after he fell into debt and now forced to compete by his owner. Thinking of the upcoming fight, Paton's hand flexed compulsively, grasping the hilt of his gladius and sliding the blade out of the sheath.

Looking at the steel blade glint in the light of the torches that lined the cavernous basement area, he forced himself back into a state of almost otherworldly tranquility. Here he was, a man who typically avoided confrontation at all cost, about to venture into the gladiator arena. He closed his eyes briefly, the reason for his involvement swimming to the forefront of his mind—an image of Julia, alone and helpless amid the surging, animalistic crowd, a lofty idol suspended before the competitors.

He _would _be victorious. He had to be.

A great roar from the direction of the crowd coupled with the demanding summons of his guard alerted him to the fact that it was time—he was going to fight. An odd grimace working its way across his mouth, Paton forced his legs to move, carrying himself across the sandy floor and up the ramp, emerging into the sun-flooded arena to a raucous mix of boos and cheers.

His opponent succeeded him by mere seconds, clambering into the arena amid a roar of support that all but drowned out Paton's own reception. The man was strong, muscles prominent and honed. He, too, bore a gladius, in addition to the round Roman shield sported by so many of the men on Paton's side of the arena.

Paton cast a glance into the writhing tide of bodies that surrounded him on all sides, extending multiple stories up into the sky. He sought the seats of honor, where members of the senate and esteemed Romans congregated—where they kept the prize for the day. _There, _off to his right in the dead center of the arena—Julia.

He saw her look hopelessly down at the man Paton was to face, then turn an almost disinterested look his way, as if she had already resigned herself to being the prize of some brutish Roman. He could see her eyes widen as she took in his form—so familiar under normal circumstances, but so unexpected in this setting—could see her mouth fall open in astonishment.

He also saw collar around her neck, and the oafish man who held its chain. The brute gave it a viscious yank when Julia failed to tear her gaze from Paton, and she jerked backwards, the expression of pain on her face evident to Paton even from where he stood.

Paton went blind with rage, an anger such that he seldom felt flooding every pore of his body. In that moment, he lost any semblance calm that he had adopted earlier in the morning. His blood boiled in his veins and his nerves hummed, adrenaline surging through his body with each beat of his heart.

Like a man possessed, he drew his sword from its sheath in one fluid movement and held it aloft, a wordless challenge to any who would stand in his way.

The crowd roared in response, and the soldier drew his own gladius, stepping toward Paton. His eyes were dark with purpose, his only goal to kill this tall opponent.

Paton watched the man advance with a cool, calculating gaze, forcing the more bestial aspects of his nature into submission. He knew intellect could aid him greatly in such a confrontation, that his opponent was likely trained in the basic militaristic style of hack and defend.

They stood but two yards apart now, two men pitted against each other in nature's most deadly dance. Paton saw his opponent's eyes flicker to his face, then down along his torso, taking stock of his weaponry and armour. Paton stood stock-still, knowing the man expected him to jump in and make the first move, and knowing too that to do so would be signing his death writ.

Finally, the soldier moved, darting in toward Paton and bringing his sword in a vicious downward chop angled toward Paton's shoulders. Instinctively, Paton swung his own gladius up, catching his opponent's blow on the flat of his own blade in a bone-jarring collision. He saw his opponent's eyes widen slightly, as if shocked that this lean competitor possessed the strength to block his blow.

Paton darted backwards, sword extended, warily watching his foe and awaiting the next strike.

The gladiator obliged, giving a guttural roar and charging forward, strategy and tactics forgotten in the mindless haze that seemed to have settled over him.

A grim smile settled across Paton's mouth. Such a lapse in focus was precisely what he had been hoping for. Moving as one with his blade, he stepped in and countered his foe's frantic blows, stopping the choppy swings with deft turns of his sword.

The clash of steel rang throughout the arena, and the spectators watched as a single, silent entity, engrossed in the drama unfolding below.

Far heavier and more armored than his taller, leaner foe, the soldier soon began to tire under the draining pull of the summer sun. Sweat streamed down his face and pooled in his eyes and at his chin, dripping to collect on the dusty arena floor.

Paton's arms and shoulders ached from the number of blows he had been forced to catch on his blade, but he refused to allow his strength to fail him. To falter now meant death, for both himself and for Julia as well. Squinting up at the sky, he nodded and spun into an attack of his own, darting in toward the other gladiator and slashing at his exposed left side.

Skipping back, the soldier managed to avoid the stinging bite of Paton's blade, and he snarled at the tall Yewbeam's gall. Now he charged Paton outright, swinging his gladius in every direction, unceasing in his onslaught of attacks.

Paton continued to defend, stepping back at an angle and deflecting the blows as best he could. Finally, he caught his adversary's blow midair, holding back his sword with his own blade, arms shaking from the effort it cost him.

Sensing Paton's weakening strength, the other gladiator sneered and brought the full force of his strength to bear on the less-experienced man. However, he had not anticipated Paton's strategy—each step backwards, each defensive maneuver, had been precisely executed to as to guide the soldier into such a position that the sun would be angled _just so_. Now, the soldier was effectively paralyzed, frozen in his tracks and unable to see, caught in the blinding glare of the noontime sun.

"The game is mine," Paton said quietly. Swiftly, he slipped past his opponent's weakened defenses and rapped him sharply on the temple with the hilt of the sword, the blow echoing dully throughout the silent arena. The man toppled like a domino, collapsing to the arena floor and sending a cloud of dust billowing up around his slumped form.

The crowd was on its feet, roaring its approval and screaming for the soldier's blood. As the pulsing throb of adrenaline lessened and he stood gasping and pouring sweat in the middle of the arena, Paton realized that this bout was over—he had won. His eyes turned to Julia, to the prize he was one step closer to reaching. She was on her feet, hands curled tightly around the railing before her, leaning as far into the arena as she safely could, eyes and every iota of her being honed in on him.

Knowing her as well as he did, Paton could see the pride she wore like a badge, as well as the worry that gnawed at her heart, and he felt a rush of satisfaction as he realized that pride was in him, that all of that worry was for _his _wellbeing. He cast a long, steady gaze toward her, telling her with his eyes if not his voice that he would soon be victorious, that soon she would be free of her enslavement.

Then the moment was broken, and he was ushered out of the arena by two burly guards, dismissed to prepare for his next bout as the arena was cleared and the next battle began. He sat back against the cement wall and closed his eyes, listening to the distant hum of the crowd. The fight sounded a vicious one, if the audience was any indication. Voices rose and fell in a cadence of cheers and derisive chants, each faction supporting its chosen champion.

Paton sighed and clenched his eyes even more tightly closed, willing the clamour into the background. It settled into a muted hum of noise, an irritating drone that he could at least temporarily dismiss.

Oxygen passed slowly through his nose as he buried his face in his hands, hair falling down around his fingers. He needed this moment of reprieve, needed a minute to just sit in solitude and silence and regroup.

The first match was finished; he had won, had proven himself the physical superior over another. He was one step nearer to Julia, two further bouts the only things that stood in his way.

A particularly loud crescendo of noise caught his attention, and his awareness of all around him came flooding back in a sudden surge of sound. It seemed that this match, too, was finished. As the floor attended carried the loser from the field—Paton tried desperately to ignore the scarlet beads of blood trickling from the body and leaving a sticky trail on the sandy ground—he jerked his head first at Paton and then the arena.

Paton rose, grunting as the slight movement tugged at his purpling bruises. A lion…could he face down such a brute, the king of the beasts, and emerge triumphant? The other gladiators masses around him, a surging, sweaty escort that guided him away from his resting place Desperately, even as his companions ushered him toward the gate, he cast his gaze about for a weapon to use against this new, furred foe. A gladius was too short to be effective against such a beast, at least in Paton's relatively inexperienced hands.

Then he saw it, propped innocently against the stony wall—a javelin! Darting around several soldiers, Paton seized the light spear and hefted it in one hand, testing the weight and balance as he was propelled up the ramp and back out into the brilliantly-lit arena. The sun stood now in its zenith, exposing all beneath its searing, scorching shafts. Paton's tongue flitted out and wet suddenly dry lips, the back of his throat like parchment; he could already feel the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.

A great, appreciative swell of noise bubbled up from the surrounding crowd, washing over Paton and submerging it in its very essence. For a moment, he stood stock still, staring slackly up at the screaming citizens that surrounded him. It seemed he had won some supporters during his previous bout.

Paton grinned and basked in the energy radiating throughout the arena, his blood surging, adrenaline coursing throughout his veins. He turned on the spot, looking up and seeking out Julia with eyes that glowed with the primal sort of energy cultivated by the crowd.

She stood in the same place as before, in her long white tunic and adorned with her flashing iron manacles and necklace. The sight of her, alone and captive and so obvious terrified—for his safety more than her own, he was certain—brought Paton crashing back to earth from his temporary glory, and his sense of rationality returned to drive away the bloodlust.

The pad of massive paws across the sand and a shattering leonine roar shattered the look that they shared, and Paton snapped back to reality with a jolt, turning to face his next opponent. He moved just in time, catching sight of the lion just as it sprang into a leap. He yelled and threw himself to the right, hitting the dirt and sending up a massive cloud of dust. Grit stung his knees and elbows, grinding itself into his skins and leaving long scrapes across his pale skin.

Wincing, he drew himself to his feet and turned to face his adversary. The lion was _fast_; he had to keep on his toes, or risk death at the mercy of those deadly paws. Daringly, he skipped in close to the feline and jabbed at it tentatively with his javelin.

Idly, as if flicking away an irritating fly, the beast batted away the spear like it was a twig, sending it and Paton careening toward the high wall that ringed the arena.

Taking advantage of the man's loss of guard, the lion sprang in behind him and swiped at his legs, its claws passing across Paton's calves and leaving four horizontal scarlet streaks on each leg, cutting neatly through his leather greaves. Paton roared in pain and outrage, furious that he had allowed his guard to grow so lapse. Rebounding from his stumble, he sprang around and swiped viciously at the lion with his spear, the well-honed blade slicing neatly across the beast's mane and muzzle and leaving a bloody gash.

The crowd roared with the lion, plebians and patricians alike stomping and beating their hands against the railings in bloodthirsty delight. Slinking away, the lion eyed Paton warily, tail twitching as it stared at this lean man who had managed to wound it.

Weakness—the lion was showing weakness. Recognizing this, Paton pressed his advantage, bearing down upon the tawny feline, javelin extended before him, eyes dark with purpose. His face was calm, devoid of the cruel, bloodthirsty twist many gladiators bore, for he did not blame the beast. It was simply a victim of its circumstances, much like himself—forced to fight by others, for others' entertainment.

The lion backed away, and Paton pursued, swinging wildly with his javelin. Finally, the lion found itself cornered in the far edge of the arena, backed up against the concrete wall with nowhere else to turned. It seemed to glare at Paton, eyes full of pain as it heaved gasping breaths, its flanks matted with streaks of blood. It was an animal cornered, and Paton knew that it had but one option left—to spring.

He bent his knees slightly and grasped the javelin tightly in his fists, holding it in a grip so strong that his knuckles turned white. He hoped the crowd—and Julia—could not see how his knees shook. More importantly for his survival, though, he hoped he did not miss.

Sweat streamed from Paton's pores, his hair sticking to his head in a matted mess, his skin slick

The lion roared one final challenge and leapt into the air; that was the moment Paton launched his missile. His aim was true, and the lion landed in the dirt in an ungraceful heap, the blade of Paton's spear buried in his heart.

The crowd's exultations were lost on Paton. As the adrenaline ebbed away, everything faded to a dull buzz. He stood in the arena, limbs shaking from exhaustion and as the stress leeched from his body and left his muscles rubbery. Leaning heavily on the shoulder of the attending slave, he allowed himself to be led from the arena and down into the dim, cool corridor below.

He did not so much lean back against the wall as collapse onto it, his muscles sapped of all their strength now that he had no need to engage them. Finally out of the intense glare of the sun, finally able to relax and allow himself to show the weakness that he had been withholding, he grimaced as the slices on his legs throbbed painfully, fresh blood welling to the wounds' surfaces with each pounding beat of his heart.

Looking down at the ruby blood that oozed across his skin—his blood, a distant part of his mind noted—he marveled not for the first time at the horrific violence that accompanied these so-called Roman "games". So many lives lost, so many men injured—and for what? Pure sport and entertainment. He felt ill with the very thought of it.

Bending down in a stretch whose fluidity belied his muscle's screams, Paton tore two long strips of cloth from his ragged, dust-stained tunic and bound them around his calves. A wry grin pulled at his lips. "I must be a sight to behold," he murmured, imagining the reactions of his sisters or Amy and Maisie if they could see him now—though, Grizelda and the others would, of course, simply be disappointed that the lion had failed to finish him off.

Hair matted with sweat and grime and sticking to his face and neck in dishevelled clumps, sand and dust caked across his body in reddish streaks, pale skin sunburned and mottled with a myriad of cuts and abrasions…Paton knew that he would frighten even the staunchest of men. "He gave a humorless laugh and straightened into a standing position with a groan. "I won't be breaking any hearts today," he said to himself.

Time passed all too quickly, as it is wont to do upon the eve of an unanticipated event, and Paton found a gladius thrust into his hand and his feet propelling him out into the arena long before he felt sufficiently recovered to continue fighting.

As he entered the coliseum for what would be the last time—one way or the other—the bottom of Paton's stomach dropped away, leaving a hollow, bottomless pit. Gone was his earlier confidence, for standing before him now, armed to the teeth with gladius, dagger, _and _javelin, was the tallest, strongest, most ferocious gladiator that Paton had encountered.

He closed his eyes, knowing already that he would be hard-pressed to walk away from this bout with a victory—or even in one piece. The beginning of the fight was signaled before he knew it, and immediately the other gladiator gave a great roar and charged, swinging with spear and gladius simultaneously and forcing Paton to backpedal away.

He made a few, half-hearted attempts to stave away his opponent's blows, but the energy he was expending by doing so far exceeded what remained in his meager reserves. His arms trembled each time he was forced to brace his sword against a slash or strike, and he could feel the muscles in his arms and back beginning to give way.

"You're good," the other man taunted, "but not good enough."

Paton's heart sank in despair; beneath it all, his will to live and masculine pride and desire to free Julia all aside, he knew that his foe was right.

In that moment, perhaps sensing Paton's moment of horrible realization, the other gladiator threw himself into his most ferocious combination of attacks yet, using spear and gladius in tandem and driving Paton backwards across the arena.

Deftly, the gladiator snaked his blade around Paton's sword and flicked it from the power booster's grasp. He then cast aside his own gladius and bore down on Paton with his javelin extended, a victorious smile consuming his face.

Paton scrambled backward, feet scrabbling for a hold on the sandy ground. His previous wounds came back to haunt him, though, and his calves gave out beneath him. Paton staggered, stumbling and struggling to remain standing.

Casually, as though he were merely going through a routine, the gladiator struck Paton across the cheek with the butt of his spear, knocking him down onto the dirt. Desperation filled Patonn's being, and he cast his gaze up to the stands, seeking out Julia and Julia alone. As his gaze fastened onto her, his eyes hungrily seeking one final glimpse of her lovely visage, they widened in horrified alarm—beside Julia, one arm casually curled about her shoulders, stood Count Harken, resplendent in a purple-striped tunic and accompanying toga.

Why—no, better yet, _how_ could he be there? Paton could only surmise that the Count needed the mirror only to facilitate the travel of others; it seemed once a spell was worked and released, he could manipulate it at will.

Harken leered down at Paton, smiling cruelly, and gave a little wave. He then turned and yanked Julia's chains from the hands of the stupefied guard and disappeared in the blink of an eye, taking Julia with him.

The sudden, chilling bit of steel against his neck brought Paton crashing back to the fatal reality of his own situation, and he looked up into the brilliant azure sky, hoping against hope that Charlie yet retained possession of the Mirror, and that he was paying as close attention as possible. "Charlie," he roared, the sudden sound of his voice startling the gladiator before him, "Charlie, bring me back _now!"_

He felt a trickle of blood ooze along his neck as the javelin began to dig into his flesh, and closed his eyes in desperation. He was about to die, and Julia was not only still lost in history, but in Harken's hold as well for the time being.

A brilliant flash of light enveloped him then, and the icy fist that had closed around his heart lessened, his terror slowly dissipating as the realization began to seep in that now was not his time to die. He landed with a dull thud on the familiarly-hard and wooden floor of the bookshop.

He was safe, for now—but Julia was still lost.


End file.
